By Jake Reed
The world is dying again.
Its decay crushed under
and the last day of summer
gives back for a future birth of creation.
The night begins to claim its solitaire existence
as it watches the transition
from lush to barren and
the gray area of an eternal cycle
begins to dot the landscape.
Mother earth shapes us here,
crafting our being,
through the masterwork of seasons.
The sky is sprayed with white
and the sunsets turn
a vibrant pink as
the peak of life says goodbye
Time cannot exist in spite of the external
and humanity once again begins their retreat
to the warmth of their own.
Lush to Barren
The fires of morning rise with dawn
only to dissipate.
Like shadowy tendrils
and choosing to remain amongst the corporeal.
People darting to and fro;
answering the beckons
of a simple existence.
While their guardians meet in mass
to organize future epochs.
Soft beats dream ambiance into what i perceive.
And echoes of a pale faced muse still entrance
those who walk these halls.
The density of history is abundant in the air.
They take on the sickness of the fallen,
bravely breathing in the memories of their failures,
to maybe stop the madness
that has created our line’s imperfections.
Hazy eyes illuminated by a red sun
as foggy skies address a cleansing.
The cost of industry and
the expenditure of ecstasy
pale in comparison
to the whims of democracy.
As dreams dwindle with the suns exit,
the earth must turn its back once again,
and the greens of abundance and
the fruits of the harvest,
will be buried under decay.
Amor Fati under a broken sunset
You strike me with your splendor,
stealing casual glances away
feigning interest in nothing.
Its that humble approach
where you become profound
when no ones looking,
become the sole witness to your brilliance.
A gaze that disarms the insincere
and stabs the profit seekers
with a perpetual rebuttal.
Call forth my shadows,
and purge this moment
so we can have forever.
We’ll let eternity exist
for an instant
and then share our zeros
to make infinity.
At the very ceremony
that should have blessed us,
turned into fantasy,
as the lamb bled for not.
And into the earth it’s life went,
to hide amongst the dead
who do not judge failure
for they have already traversed.
We no longer check the time
because its run out.
Purgatory can wait.
Tomorrow can be anything
and its promise pushes us forward.
We proudly wear our scars as much as
we hide them.
The tissue can be an excuse
as much as a defense.
Have we hardened so much
that we no longer wish to wake up
from our dreams?
A faith in the future
is a denial of the moment
when all you do is project fantasy.
Jake has been exploring the extremities of the human condition for the last five years.
Jake’s personal publication claptrap includes www.Ehow.com, Diplomacy Journal, www.travels.com, blah blah.
Hobbies: reading, writing, and pushing the limits of tolerable inebriation. His current writing project involves a postmodern novel that draws on themes such as nihilism, isolation and alienation in a world where you are told the good guys won.
Since leaving his native city of San Diego, concepts such as national identity and individual ego have become gradually less important as his relationship with the universal experience grows.